


things you said

by CookiesAreSoHot



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-07-26 21:42:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7591465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CookiesAreSoHot/pseuds/CookiesAreSoHot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Overwatch mini fills based on "things you said" prompts. Not accepting requests. Currently: "things you said too quietly." Widowmaker/Tracer</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 6. ...under the stars and in the grass (McCree/Hanzo)

“Do you ever wonder why we’re here?”

Hanzo scoffs quietly, not taking his eyes off the sky. “Are you trying to be deep, Jesse?” 

The cowboy makes a displeased noise and the grass rustles as he shifts to get more comfortable. “I’m serious , darlin’.” He insists, and Hanzo can already see the pout forming on his lips. “Like, I look at everythin’ above us… around us… it feels too beautiful to be just coincidental.”

“… What are you insinuating, Jesse?”

McCree takes a sharp intake of air. “So do you ever wonder. If you, me, us meeting, us getting’ together was all like, planned out or somethin’?”

The Japanese man suddenly tenses at that idea and McCree realises too late what else he implied, what else may have been an act of fate, sitting up quite suddenly and glancing over at his partner.

“Hanzo, darlin’, shit, I never meant to imply THAT was some predestined mumbo jumbo…” The topic of Genji, and what Hanzo DID to his younger brother, still runs deep and painfully in the archer’s soul. 

“Then what ARE you trying to say?” Hanzo snaps angrily, eyes closing in anger (not to hide the tears, never that). 

McCree hopelessly looks at his hands, clenching and unclenching them before he turns back to the stars above. “… I’m just… I feel… drawn to you. Like… we were supposed to…”

His voice dies and there is a passing silence between the two, the only sounds are of the night letting itself known before Hanzo hesitantly opens his eyes and looks at the cowboy, who is simply sitting there, eyes still up above, as if looking among the abyss of darkness and stars to find the words he was trying to say.

Hanzo sighs and pushes himself up before he grabs McCree by the chin and, before the cowboy can react, kisses him hard. 

McCree makes a surprised noise against his mouth but Hanzo only kisses harder in response before pulling back just as suddenly, only just, his lips almost painfully grazing McCree’s. “I won’t be a plaything of fate.” He whispers sharply and the cowboy feels his heart drop. 

But then there is a pained sigh from the Japanese man’s lips. “But… I do feel as if… maybe… our meeting… was fate. Something the Gods or Spirits let me have to let me forgive myself for…” He presses his forehead against McCree’s, eyes closed again because looking into those beautiful brown eyes would just be too much for the archer. “For what I did to my brother.” 

McCree gives a quiet hum, hand reaching up to smooth a strand of hair behind Hanzo’s ear. “M’sorry, darlin’.” He tries. “For what I… implied. I just…”

“I know. I love you too, Jesse.”

And before McCree can give his answer again, Hanzo is kissing him like he’s all that’s left in the world. 


	2. 3. ...too quietly (Widowmaker/Tracer)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for mild/implied sexual content.

_“You make me feel alive.”_

Words whispered against the skin of Lena’s stomach as Amélie presses feathered kisses down her abdomen. It’s barely audible, more _felt_ than heard so Lena’s positive she’s imagining things because this is Widowmaker, formerly known as  Amélie, and she barely feels anything anymore, and those feelings certainly don’t include Lena Oxton, better known as her call sign Tracer.

_This is just sex._

Just two women with tension between them both sexual and territorial and this is just a way to blow off steam, even if they are on opposing sides of an increasingly grey battle of heroes and villains (whatever that means, as these certainly aren’t like her comics full of costumed heroes that she read as a scrawny ten-year-old).

And they were so soft, so inaudible that Lena’s almost positive she imagined them, so she waves it off and just lets Amélie’s lips travel lower, past her naval and _oh yes…_

But then it happens again the next time they meet up, weeks after the death of Mondatta, when the sex is raw and angry with nails scratching against blue, cold skin (she wonders if she’ll leave a mark, like the many Amélie has left against her), and the sniper’s hand tugs hard at her mousy brown hair, Amélie breathes the words into the air, barely a whisper and definitely more to herself than to Tracer, when she comes down from the high of orgasm.

_“You make me feel alive.”_

Lena’s brain tries to process the meaning behind the words, because there is no way in the world that her full time enemy and part time hook up means anything sweet or romantic behind those words despite the hopeful lurch Tracer’s heart gives.

“You say something, Love?” The British woman tries in between her own panting, still coming down from her own high with a cheeky grin plastered over her feature. “Trying to sweet talk me?”

The only reply she gets is her signature leather bomber jacket thrown over her face and the bed creaking a groan as Amélie slides off the bed. Lena hesitates a moment before the sound of a closing door means she can pull the jacket off her face. The light pooling from underneath her bathroom door indicates that Amélie is still here, but for how long is anyone’s guess.

Lena stares up at the grubby ceiling of her small apartment, almost hugging her trademark jacket to her chest and surprised at herself by how much she strains to hear the sounds of running water, half wondering if this is some ploy of Widowmaker’s (not Amélie, Amélie is a name she cries out during sex, but she half wonders if she _can_ call her that even), some sort of cheeky revenge and she’ll go in there to find her gone and her sink overflowing.

She’s pleasantly surprised when it isn’t, when the French woman comes out later with a towel barely covering her and still dripping wet and Lena finds herself wetting her lips as she watches the sniper attempt to sort out through the mess of clothes (and the general mess that is Lena’s apartment) what is hers and what isn’t.

Lena sits up and tries to grab at the sniper’s hands but the French woman pulls away, giving a tsk of playful disapproval.

“Now, _mon cheri_ , we’ve talked about this.” Amélie remarks in that low all too sultry voice of hers, as she slides a long thin leg into one of the pants of her body suit, “I invite you into my parlour – ”

“Your parlour?” Lena interrupts, with another cheeky grin. “Funny, I thought it looked an awful lot like my apartment.”

The sniper rose an eyebrow as she pulled her suit fully on, adjusting it. _“_ but unless you wish to be _devoured alive_ ,” She continues, as if Lena hadn’t just interrupted her. “I leave after we are done.”

There’s a pause before Lena grabs at her again, all too knowing smirk crossing her lips again as she finds her loophole. “Well… who says we’re done?”

Amélie swears something in French but it’s cut off by Lena’s mouth on hers before she pulls her back into the bed.

_This is just sex._

Lena tries telling herself that as she takes the lead this time, fingers finding the points where Widowmaker’s suit comes free so she can run her tongue and lips over the sweet and cold skin of Amélie.

_This is just sex._

She watches Amélie’s face carefully from her vantage point between the woman’s legs, her tongue and fingers hard at work and for a woman that apparently should not feel anything, Amélie makes a lot of noise when she finds her peak again at the work of Lena’s clever tongue and quick fingers.

_Just… sex._

Lena tries to wheedle the words out of Amélie again, because she needs to know they were real, but all Amélie leaves her with that night are wordless cries of ecstasy and a cold bed.

So Lena stares at the window she watched Widowmaker jump out of when she didn’t have the energy to try to coax Amélie into another round, half tempted to go after her, find out where she even goes in between these trysts and the fights between Talon and the remnants of Overwatch.

She buries her face into a pillow that smells of the Chanel that she knows Amélie only wears when she comes to Lena for sex (Tracer has tried using the smell to find Widowmaker on the field, it doesn’t work, it’s too obvious and would give away her position), the only sound echoing through the room is the constant hum of her chronal accelator, her anchor to the present, the reminder of the status of her life.

_Living ghost._

Lena was 26 years old when she stepped into the Slipstream, and ten years later, in a far too empty apartment that smells of her part time lover and full time enemy, she has not aged a day.

Lena sighs and whispers to the spider, who is since long gone.

_“You make me feel alive."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have two versions of this with the same prompt and pairing, I will eventually upload the second version.
> 
> In my mind, Tracer has been 'trapped in time', since her accident (since at best, it means she was only 16 - 18 years old at the time of her accident if she continues to age since she's listed as 26 years old). Also this makes it potentially more angsty.


End file.
